


The Eye of the Tempest

by Adadzio



Series: Character/Relationship Studies [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Devan vicariously becomes a man (or something), Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Multi, Puberty, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Devan knew it was wrong to fall in love with a priestess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eye of the Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompts:** wild pre-battle sex | uncertainty | DEVAN being the most trustworthy squire ever | the journey north etc etc
> 
> Enjoy!! ;D

Of all his brothers, Devan had always been the most curious.

He was now the eldest living, a fact he was painfully aware of, and he'd been chosen to squire for the one true king.  _It is_ _a great honour,_ his parents said. The pride was clear in their beaming faces. And Devan _did_  feel honoured to be privy to the king’s business, his needs, his comings and goings each day. Even when it involved _her_.

 _Especially_ when it involved her.

Oh, Devan knew it was wrong to fall in love with a priestess. It was wrong to feel his heart racing each time she flashed him a smile, wrong to think of her red eyes as he lie awake on the hard ground in the king’s tent, wrong to dream it was _his_ pallet she slipped into at night and not the king’s. And it was most certainly wrong to feel loyal to the priestess and her red god whilst his father flexed his shortened knuckles at the very mention of her name. But it was an honour—nay, his solemn _duty_ to protect the king’s affairs.

Besides, Melisandre had always been kind to him, much more so than the highborn lords and ladies who turned their noses up at the Seaworth crest. She was kind to all the servants, too. The priestess insisted upon attending herself rather than calling upon them for dressing and bathing. She even slipped the king's servants the sweetcakes she never ate. 

Surely it could not hurt that his insatiable curiosity was quenched from watching her— _them_ —from the corner of his eye. By the time they had boarded a ship bound for the North, Devan knew he'd seen more than he should have over the years, and certainly more than he understood. _No more covert glances,_ he decided. He vowed not to disembark until he was a true man, a man who understood the ways of the world. 

When they were but a few days off the shores of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, their ship was wracked off course by a violent storm. A foul temper had overtaken them all, only exacerbating the existing tension that had built up during the voyage. Passage on the dreary ship seemed to drag on forever, long, stifling months where the king could not avoid Queen Selyse as oft as he’d like. He sought out Lady Melisandre all the more for it. Perhaps it was wrong, but Devan secretly thanked R’hllor for the priestess's ability to soothe the king during these times.

When the waves seemed too massive and deadly to navigate, they began readying for an early evening. Devan marched about his duties with a straight back and a sense of purpose, as he always did, making note of what the king barked at his servants. But the priestess remained calm and transfixed by the fire in the corner of his dim cabin, her red body swaying slightly with the motion of the ship. Yes, Devan knew it was wrong to stare, wrong to sneak glances, wrong to linger by the door after he’d been dismissed. But everyone else did. Melisandre was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen—the most beautiful woman _any_ man had ever seen—with her copper hair and her lovely voice and the soft, red curves of her gowns. Even the men who called her names seemed to acknowledge her beauty. _Foreign witch_ , some said. _A woman has no place in the king's councils,_ said others. _Better she is seen and not heard._ Some words were worse. His own father grumbled harsh names beneath his breath, but Devan's curiosity only grew for it. 

He thought back again to that first scandal in the Stormlands, trying to make sense of the pattern. The sharp whispers had followed them everywhere.  _The king keeps Melisandre in his tent each night._ _Melisandre soothes him to sleep. Melisandre sings to him, and prays with him, offers her counsel and her comfort._ Devan was not such a green boy anymore, and not so certain the comfort had ended there.

They were even less careful these days. Sometimes when Devan lingered a moment too long he could catch the way they looked at one another, and it felt like an answer to a question he’d never dared to ask. As did the way the king’s hand slid from her shoulder to her slender waist when they thought no one was watching. Once he’d glimpsed them through the crack of the study door, pressed together against the king's desk at Dragonstone. There had been no space between them, none at all, their bodies locked together, rocking urgently. He'd heard the same strange sounds in the king's tent, but he still didn't understand. The air felt so hot as he escaped down the stairs, unnoticed, to marvel at his own body’s reaction.

Thunder and rain snapped Devan back to his current duties. He left a pitcher of lemon water upon the table and gathered the king’s discarded gloves before backing from the room. The pair paid him no mind, so he slowed his pace and strained his ears to pick up their conversation.   

“ —shall accompany me.”

Melisandre flicked something into the flames, looking quite bored. It made a small _spark_  before fizzling into a lavender swirl of smoke. “Of course, my king.”

Devan could hear the restlessness in the king’s voice. “But you shall be at my _side_ , do you see? When we ride from Eastwatch, and as I take these wildlings beyond the Wall. Even whilst we take our stay at Castle Black.”

The priestess seemed wary. As if sensing the squire’s prying, she turned her unsettling eyes to him. Devan bowed his dark head and made haste out the door, which seemed to satisfy her. Once the door was securely shut behind him, he calmed his nerves enough to gingerly press his ear against the wood. It recognised the king's voice at once.

“There is an ancient tower on grounds, the King’s Tower, reserved for royal visitors. Your apartments shall be there.”

For a long moment only the sound of furious rain echoed throughout the deserted hall and inside the cabin. “My king— "

“I’ll hear no argument.”

She was annoyed, he could tell. “You give little thought to your actions.” Devan was dumbfounded at how she addressed the king, and astonished that she simply left the accusation there to hang in the musky air.

The king did not seem to mind. “Do I not? Each night I agonize over the very thing."

"You cannot— " 

"Do I not have the power to do as I please?”

Melisandre’s voice, for once, was cold as ice. “Many a king has been destroyed by such selfish desire.”

“Do you call me a fool?”

“Yes,” said the lady.

 _The red woman will drive him to madness_ , his father once said. Devan began to understand, then, how that might be possible.

Suddenly footsteps were echoing against the planks of the floor. Devan’s heart began racing a league a minute, and he nearly tripped over himself as he attempted to scramble from the door. As they emerged from the cabin, the king feral on the heels of the lady, Devan somehow managed to throw himself in the dimmest end of the private hall. There he held his breath, hidden in the damp shadows like a dormant animal, and watched as her red form breezed to the passage which opened out to the ship’s deck. His panic mounted when their boots froze, two black and two red, and all Devan could hear was his own heart thudding. _Thud, thud_ , like a smith’s heavy tools. But it was clear they were oblivious to his presence in the darkness. The king caught her arm to trap her against the doorframe, uncaring that she had wrenched the door open and their bodies were being sprayed by icy rain and sea. “Your Grace, I bid you leave me to my own cabin,” Melisandre said coolly.

“I bid you stay with me tonight, as it may be our last,” he retorted.

Instead Melisandre turned her head toward the sole lantern at the end of the hall, flickering feebly near Devan’s crouched figure. Cold dread seeped into his bones. Then the king’s nose was brushing her outstretched neck, followed by his lips and rough jaw, and the priestess was otherwise distracted. Devan let out a silent sigh of relief. He saw the way her red eyes became heavy-lidded, the smooth, ivory swell of her chest rising and falling in the blue moonlight. _Up and down. Up and down._ Yet how she resisted! Her fists were quickly subdued in the king’s grip, her fingers wilting like crushed white butterflies as he pinned them against the wall. Devan felt an odd stirring in his veins, like a rush of warm mead. The king bent his head to press his lips to droplets of rain, each one glistening like a diamond against her pale throat.

The priestess moaned slightly, and His Grace seemed doubly intent on having her. “Tell me you shall always remain by my side,” he demanded hoarsely. “ _Truly_ by my side, and never far from it.”

“Don't— "

“I do not anticipate victory,” he said bluntly. For a moment he faltered, his forehead coming to rest against the dark wood of the cabin wall, his lips still pressed to her ear. “I do not see triumph in the flames as you do. I see smoke, black and thick and suffocating. I see my crown turned to ashes…I see _you_ burning, my lady. Tell me I dream, that it’s nothing but a harmless omen, if ever there is such a thing. For now I question to go forth in this wilderness, dragging you into the eye of the tempest with me. Should this battle be my defeat— "

“It is but the beginning of a new dawn,” Melisandre snapped, silencing him with a harsh look. “You are the warrior of fire. I see this battle clear as day— "

“You lie,” the king sighed. To Devan’s shock, she did not refute the claim as was her custom, only angled her red head to the fire once more, brow furrowed and eyes burning with the flames.

Her lips moved silently for a moment, as if she did not know what answer to give. "How can you doubt me, still?" she finally whispered.

The king sighed again. “Melisandre,” he said, but nothing more. She turned her eyes back to his tall form, leaning her head against the wood to gaze up at him in challenge. Lightning briefly lit up the corridor through the open door, torrents of rain beating against the exposed floor. "I ordered the guards to retire, for the storm is too dangerous," he informed her. "You'll have none to escort you." 

Devan almost missed the priestess’s soft reply in the midst of the roaring storm. “Then I must remain here, in this very spot.” 

“Foolish woman,” the king grumbled.

She shifted almost imperceptibly. "Perhaps you should return to your cabin?"

At that moment a furious gust of wind blew the door fully open, a sheet of icy rain not far behind. A strange madness seemed to sweep over them, then, and Devan's eyes widened as the king's hands grasped her lower, touching places of a woman he'd never dared consider. Devan had always been taught to treat a lady with respect, to wait upon her needs gently and see she was in comfort. By contrast the king's handling was rough, violent even. Yet it did not seem to harm her. She curled her arms about his neck, as if desperate to get closer, and strange noises slipped from her lips. White forearms were uncovered as her soaked red sleeves slid up.

The same happened with her legs, the slender ankles exposed above her boots as she hitched her thighs about his narrow waist. Devan could hardly see a thing, only the king's boots illuminated wet in the moonlight, and the very edge of their silhouettes catching the candlelight. Their hips were moving, writhing, melting into each other and knocking against the wide doorframe, that much he could see and hear. 

 _Her knees!_   He could see her bare knees now! Devan wondered what they felt like, his breath feeling strangled in his chest at the thought. _What did any woman feel like—but her especially?_ And what did it  _look_ like, that hidden, milky skin beneath her skirts and bodice? He knew it was wrong to covet a priestess, but more and more it seemed he wasn't the only one.

An odd ache bloomed in his belly as the king kissed her forcefully, a pleasant sickness seeping from his waist to his groin, stronger and more intense than he’d ever felt before. The realisation was a knife in his gut, but it was impossible to tear his eyes from them, as if his own body had become part of theirs and the rhythm of their bodies pulsed through his own veins. Melisandre gave a strangled cry, and Devan thought he might perish right there and then. _God,_ he thought wildly, _god or gods or whomever—_

But there was no reprieve, only a building pressure and a sudden, warm relief as thunder ripped through the sky and echoed away across the sea. He slumped as carefully as he could against the black wall, feeling fatigued and sticky. _From the salty air, surely._ Down the corridor, the king and the priestess had stilled as well, though they remained tangled up in one another, their limbs slick with rain and sweat.

“Close the bloody door,” the king muttered. Melisandre made a muffled noise of amusement and reached over languidly to close off the elements. Devan blinked when the hall was pitched in even further blackness. “Do you truly desire to sleep alone?” the king asked after a moment. The corridor suddenly seemed very quiet, though the rain continued its vicious attack outside. 

“Too much I fear the darkness."

The king's silhouette shrugged away to right itself. “I should have known,” he said dryly. Melisandre’s lips curled up in the weak candlelight, and Devan felt a sharp envy to realize her smiles were not reserved for him. _You are a squire,_ he reprimanded himself, still feeling dazed. 

“You know I shall never leave your side, my king. Not until you command it.”

“Then you’ll accept lodging…"

“Here," she agreed, running her hands up his damp shirtsleeves. "And the King’s Tower, and anywhere you bring me…"

The king gave a rare, crooked smile. “Very good, my lady.” Devan shrunk against the black wall as they tugged each other back to his cabin. His entire body felt it might collapse to the floor, but he supposed he should be glad, at least, to see His Grace in better spirits. _It is a great honour to squire for the king._  His heart pounded the mantra as if attempting to find some familiar sanity in the evening. _You are loyal to the king, and serving the king is the only thing that matters._

Later, though, when he'd escaped to his little closet of a cabin and washed the stickiness away, his mind drifted to the lady who owned his heart. The priestess smiled at _him_ in his dreams, only him, and Devan knew he'd follow her to the ends of the world. 


End file.
